


Rosetta Stone

by BaronMaximilian



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Combeferre's extended family, Fluff, Historical and science nerding, Illustration in Ch. 2, Logic and Philosophy Week, Logic and Philosophy Week 2019, M/M, The Roadtrip Fic, Tiny bit of Angst
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-24
Updated: 2020-04-26
Packaged: 2021-01-02 08:31:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,073
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21158687
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BaronMaximilian/pseuds/BaronMaximilian
Summary: Combeferre and Enjolras travel to England. A potential trip to the British Museum amid the hectic rush of his family affairs rests in Combeferre's mind, along with a budding need to address his feelings; Enjolras starts to become aware of his own.





	1. Part I

_1827 _

Over a cup of coffee in Enjolras’ rooms one morning in April, Combeferre made a noise of surprise that prompted Enjolras to look up from his newspaper,

“What is it?”  
Combeferre held up the letter he had been reading,  
“It’s from my mother. My cousin Alexandra is getting married at the end of the summer, and our family has been invited. She is expecting me to go, of course, it’s her sister’s eldest daughter. It's at their home in Essex, north of London.”  
Enjolras cocked his head,  
"Why... oh, of course, your mother is English."  
Combeferre nodded, then sat back in his chair and removed his glasses to rub the bridge of his nose,  
“I haven’t been to England in a long while, usually my mother’s family uses our home as a summer retreat rather than us crossing the channel ourselves.”  
“Would you be unhappy to go?” Enjolras asked,  
“I like Alexandra well enough, and my uncle. I sometimes find my Aunt Elizabeth somewhat stifling. You remember my mother, yes?”  
Enjolras nodded, remembering Madame Combeferre as a slightly eccentric, but amiable woman whose chief goal seemed to be ensuring all of her children were sufficiently educated. A small, dry smile played on Combeferre’s lips,  
“Elizabeth is the opposite of her. Scarce two years between them, they look very much the same, but in temperament, they could not be more different.”  
He slid his glasses back onto his nose,  
“Well, I suppose I shall have to go, I don’t think my mother would forgive me if I didn’t. If anything it will be nice to see the rest of my cousins again.”  
Enjolras tilted his head slightly, considering what was to him a foreign concept: there were not many Enjolrases left for him to call family, an elderly father and a spinster aunt living in Bordeaux. There were cousins, his father’s brother’s sons, but visits were few and far between; there was no love between them. In fact, there was barely tolerance. Combeferre then made an impulsive decision,  
“Would you come with me? It’s a long journey and I should like to spend it with a friend rather than by myself.”  
Enjolras quirked his lips,  
“You know full well that my English is abominable.”  
“It’s a good thing that I am near to fluent, then,” Combeferre replied.  
He reached across the table and pressed Enjolras’ hand,  
“It would mean much to me if you would. If you don’t wish to then-”  
“Combeferre,” Enjolras interrupted gently, lacing their fingers and squeezing lightly, “of course I will come with you.”

-

_August 1827_

The journey from Paris to London took about a week, a long carriage ride from Paris to Calais, a ferry across the Channel, then another carriage ride from Dover to his cousins’ estate several miles north of central London. Combeferre hadn’t been there since he was a boy, all previous visits had been to the family’s London home, and Enjolras noted he couldn’t quite mask his discomfort when the sizeable country house loomed before them. Combeferre’s mother and youngest sister were outside waiting for them, as was a woman about Combeferre’s mother’s age and a teenage boy beside her. When he saw them, Combeferre’s face split into a wide grin, and the moment the carriage halted he jumped out and swept his sister into his arms and swung her around, then let his mother cover his face in kisses. By the time she released him Enjolras had climbed out himself.

“Monsieur Enjolras!” exclaimed the girl, Céline, “Maman, you did not tell me that Monsieur Enjolras was coming too!”  
The other woman reprimanded her lightly in English, seemingly chastising her for using her own tongue.  
“Monsieur Enjolras does not speak English, Aunt Elizabeth,” Combeferre said evenly.  
Enjolras swore he saw the woman purse her lips slightly, but she shook her head and smiled, addressing Enjolras in slightly halting French,  
“No matter, I am sure that my sister and my dear nephews and nieces will translate for us all”  
Enjolras nodded politely.  
“Enjolras, my Aunt Elizabeth. Aunt Elizabeth, my dear friend Monsieur Enjolras.” Combeferre said.  
Elizabeth lifted her hand for him to kiss, Enjolras shook it instead.  
Combeferre ignored her taken aback expression and turned to the boy beside her, drawing him into a firm hug,  
“Arthur, dear boy, how have you been?”

Combeferre had mentioned his cousin Arthur a few times before, and always warmly. Though there was near a decade between them, Combeferre being the second eldest of his siblings and Arthur the youngest, they shared a close relationship and wrote to each other at least twice a month. Enjolras observed them now. Combeferre was fairly short, a gene inherited from his father, so the fifteen year old Arthur nearly stood as tall as him. They were markedly similar in appearance and stature, both fairly stocky, and their lips, browbone and eyes were the same shape. Arthur, however, had a few features that must have favoured his father, as his nose was differently shaped to his mother, aunt, and cousin, who all had similar features there. Arthur’s hair was mousy and his eyes hazel, lighter than Combeferre’s dark brown, almost black hair, and his green eyes.  
“My studies are going well,” Arthur said when they broke apart, “Professor Docherty thinks I may go to Cambridge, with my mathematics. He says I’ve a flair for numbers, which is good because my Latin and Greek are somewhat...lacking.” He flushed in embarrassment, and his eyes flicked quickly towards his mother.  
“Even so, you have a better handle on French than all your peers combined,” Combeferre said, “I’d say if you put your focus on what you aspire for, everything else may fall into place. My friend Monsieur Enjolras is good with numbers as well, perhaps later you and he can talk...”  
Céline nudged Enjolras lightly and murmured to him in French,  
“My cousin is the cleverest out of his siblings, Monsieur. He isn’t as...insipid. But everyone else...well, I shall say that I’m not much looking forward to the next few weeks, and doubt you are either.”  
“Your brother asked me,” Enjolras replied evenly, inclining his head slightly, “it was clear me accompanying him was important to him.” Céline cocked her head, studying Enjolras’ face shrewdly, but said nothing.  
Combeferre’s aunt then clapped her hands and proclaimed, “We need not spend the entire afternoon on pleasantries, Sébastien, the rest of your family are inside.”

-

Family affairs were dull and tedious, there was no way around that, and a household in preparation for a lavish wedding was even more so. Yet at the same time, everyone seemed to be in a constant panic. The bride to be, Combeferre’s cousin Alexandra, was fretting and clearly nervous about the social niceties of weddings, and her mother was indulging in pedantry over every detail. Guests were coming and going, settling into the estate and making their own preparations with gifts, clothes, and flowers, and Combeferre had been called to help “sort things”, as his uncle had said. These 'things' had not been particularly specified, but seemed to mainly consist of double-checking invitations, orders, and bookings. Enjolras, for the most part, had been left to himself; while a good deal of Combeferre’s English cousins were able to speak French somewhat, as society dictated, they preferred communication in their own tongue and were decidedly not interested in speaking to Enjolras beyond regarding him as a “strange serious foreign gentleman”.  
The boy Arthur, however, extended the hand of friendship. He and Céline were often together, with Céline being able to translate when Arthur’s French failed. He, unlike his kin, seemed fascinated and impressed with everything Enjolras said, listening intently. The boy had an insistent curiosity about him, never satisfied with a simple answer when there was a possibility of a deeper one; this struck Enjolras as likely being similar to what Combeferre had been like in his own boyhood, and indeed watching Arthur and Combeferre sitting and talking was like watching one man at two stages of his life.

One morning a few days after their arrival, Enjolras had remained in his and Combeferre’s shared room in order to work before some inevitable social engagements later in the day. Combeferre had stayed downstairs after breakfast, coaxed to the library by his sister. When Enjolras eventually found them, several hours later, Combeferre, Céline, and Arthur were all sat together on a settee, heads bent close together, seemingly poring over a large tome that was on Combeferre’s lap; as he got closer he could see illustrations of scientific equipment. However, their conversation was, in truth, less about science,  
“-and so that’s why I think you should say something, Bastien.” Céline said, rather decisively, “I know you, I know what you’re like. And furthermore, I know that you can be a bashful fool sometimes.”  
“Charming, Cici.”  
Arthur tittered, placing a hand over his mouth to stifle his laughter.  
“Enough about me,” Combeferre went on, “Arthur, tell me about Eton. You said in your last letter that things had happened that you wanted to say in person?”  
Céline’s eyes lit up, a small grin playing on her lips,  
“Yes, cousin, tell him what you told me!”  
Arthur turned very red, visible even in the dim light of the library,  
“Well...towards the end of term, Anthony passed me a note asking me to meet him in the prefects' library, so I could help him with his trigonometry. And, well...to be fair to myself, we did start off with trigonometry.”  
Combeferre raised an eyebrow, smiling with surprise. Arthur groaned, running a hand over his face,  
“My god, Sébastien, he’s divine. I think I’m in love.”  
The three of them laughed at that, Combeferre nudging Arthur’s shoulder playfully. They had been speaking in English; Enjolras may have gleaned a word or two, but otherwise, he understood nothing of their conversation. He decided to leave them then, not wanting to intrude. He didn’t, therefore, hear it when Céline said, matter-of-factly and in French,  
“See, Bastien? If dear Arthur can muster up enough bearing to talk to someone who’s caught his eye, you can too.”  
“It’s a bit different, Cici,” Combeferre replied, masking his reticence with an awkward laugh, “to say that he’s ‘caught my eye’ is somewhat of an understatement.”

-

The peaceful morning was a calm before the storm: at ten past noon, Aunt Elizabeth and her daughter got into a shouting match over seating plans and particular ornamentation on the bridesmaid’s dresses. The result of this was that a few of the bridal party were to travel to London for around a week to set the offending affairs in order. Céline and Combeferre were required to accompany their mother, and so it followed that Enjolras would as well. Far from being annoyed at the extra travel and expenditures, however, the two siblings instead were excited; London offered them day trips to museums, exhibitions, libraries. Combeferre, in particular, wished to visit the British Museum, which contained what Enjolras understood to be an extremely important archaeological find that was key in transcribing hieroglyphics; it had come to be known as the Rosetta Stone. In addition to this, the museum also held other artefacts from Egypt, Greece, and Rome, and Céline was keen to visit the newly established natural history galleries. Arthur had mentioned visiting the Royal Observatory in Greenwich, and the nearby naval college; his interest in mathematics and calculations had garnered an interest in sailing. The stone was what Combeferre was most interested in, however, and it was clear to Enjolras on the carriage ride south into the city that he was desperate to fit a visit in amongst his aunt’s increasingly hectic schedule. The London residence was just as opulent as the country house, each room filled with fripperies becoming of an upper class, parliamentary family. There were, however, still a greater number of residents than usual crammed into the building, so there was an extended fuss upon arrival about who was sharing a room with whom. Combeferre, thankfully, managed to avoid it by quietly and assuredly telling his uncle that he and Monsieur Enjolras would be more than happy to continue sharing as they had done in the countryside, and the two of them promptly retired to said room before any more shouting occurred.

“Suffice to say, affairs that involve the entirety of my family aren’t...usually as tumultuous as this,” Combeferre remarked somewhat sheepishly as they unpacked, “though to say they’re completely calm would be a lie.”  
“Even at their calmest, I appreciate just how animated your family are. It makes a stark difference to any family gatherings in my own home. Christmas, for example, is the only time of year I see my father’s brothers and their sons, and no one is particularly fond of each other. While there’s no fighting or harsh words, the tension is palpable. I feel sorry for my father, truly.” Enjolras replied, “His brothers make their distaste for him, and for me, very clear, yet only with cold glares and silence.”  
If his uncles and cousins’ glares were anything like Enjolras’ own, that was a chilling concept indeed. Combeferre shuddered.  
“Maybe not quite tumultuous, then,” he said, “But still, perhaps not the ideal circumstances to endure.”  
Enjolras chuckled,  
“From what I’ve heard, Courfeyrac’s family might give us both a run for our money.”  
There was a loud _thump_ from downstairs, which made both men pause, then start laughing,  
“I think ‘might’ is the operative word, there.”

They finished unpacking swiftly after, and the noises from below gradually subsided. Enjolras sat on one of the twin beds, watching Combeferre unpack and dust off the last of his books.  
“Did you ever meet Isidore Niepce?,” Combeferre asked, placing the volumes on the desk,  
“The scientist? Yes, in passing once or twice. I remember he was quite close with you.”  
That was one way of putting it; he and Combeferre had had a brief on and off relationship that quickly turned permanently ‘off’ when Isidore had married two years previously, though they remained friendly.  
“His father is in London at the moment, not too far from here, I considered paying him a visit. I’ve never met the man before, but he influenced Isidore, who in turn influenced me. I should like to meet him.”  
“Another scientist?”  
“Mm, and an inventor.”  
Combeferre’s mouth curved into a small smile, a trademark sign that this was something he was invested in,  
“I do wonder if his work could be the new printing press in a few years.”  
“How so?”  
“He’s experimenting on capturing images, like portraits and paintings, only taken directly from life. Say,” he gestured out of the window, where the London street bustled beneath them, “he was to point his invention out of the window, within a few short hours you would have an image that recreates the very scene. Can you imagine what could be done with this technology, should it advance?”  
“Hours, you say,” Enjolras considered, his brow furrowed slightly in thought, “could the hours it would take not be better put to use for the creation of something akin to what we already have? You have told me of many scientific advances that may aid mankind’s future, Sebastien, but I do not understand how this could be one. As you say, we have paintings already, and those can take only a few hours to complete.”  
Rather than being chided or made bashful by his critique, Combeferre instead sought to resolve it, to share with Enjolras his belief in what Niepce’s work could achieve if developed further. To Combeferre, this process of heliography could mean the preservation of time in a far more tangible state than a painting. A true exactness, a condensed moment. A kind of truth that humans had yet to experience. It was, he said, something like the Rosetta Stone; the captured images could themselves end up being facets of learning and enlightenment. While Enjolras may not have entirely agreed with Combeferre’s points in his entirety, he listened attentively. To Enjolras, Combeferre’s ability to see the potential for progress in the things he was devoted to was enlightening in and of itself. More than that, it was a quality of Combeferre’s that Enjolras greatly admired; the fact that Combeferre would so readily share his observations with Enjolras, knowing he would listen, made Combeferre that much more dear to him.

Combeferre went on discussing the potential of this science for a good ten minutes, and Enjolras noted fondly how much it made Combeferre seem to glow with happiness. As Enjolras listened, an inexplicable feeling arose in his chest, warm and almost fizzing; it was one that he often felt when with Combeferre, though it was hard to place what it was. A physical manifestation of their bond, perhaps? It was not something he felt when in the company of Courfeyrac or Feuilly, though they were both dear to him as well, this was only when he was with Combeferre. What it truly was, Enjolras could not tell, but he welcomed it; in that moment, he understood why Combeferre preferred ‘hombre’.  
Eventually, Combeferre realised he had been talking for a while without letting Enjolras get a word in edgeways, and he stopped, and flushed,  
“I...I am sorry, I know that this science does not appeal to you.”  
Enjolras pressed his hand,  
“It appeals to you, and I am glad it does so.”

The smile they shared made the warmth in Enjolras’ chest glow brighter.


	2. Part II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Time starts to run out, Combeferre and his sister and cousin speak of weddings, while Enjolras receives a letter.

Any chances that Combeferre may have had to call on Niepce were pushed aside when he and his cousin were tasked with helping a rather frantic Alexandra Pemberworth run errands. Enjolras was volunteered by Madame Combeferre to help as well, stating that Enjolras’ cool demeanour would helpfully foil the overexcitement of the bridal party. Perhaps Madame Combeferre had been too correct about this, as one afternoon when a flustered Mrs Pemberworth asked for Enjolras’ opinion on some silk appliques, Enjolras could only blink and answer in faltering English that he didn’t understand why his opinion was needed. Céline had had to duck behind a mannequin so her mother and aunt wouldn’t see her doubling over with laughter. After this, Enjolras’ presence was not required while out shopping. 

  
Instead, Combeferre volunteered himself, Arthur, and Enjolras to aid his uncle in some managerial tasks surrounding orders and payments. Here, Arthur and Enjolras’ combined heads for figures could be put to use where they likely couldn’t in discussions of bridal fashion. This, therefore, meant travelling around the city to check numbers with ateliers and place orders, and even less time for academic or scientific exploits. Combeferre said nothing, not wanting to cause a fuss in a household that was already tense to breaking point, but Enjolras could tell that he had become somewhat disheartened. He had missed his chance to find Niepce and discuss the heliography that he was so interested in, and now their time in London was drawing to a close; it became less and less likely that a trip to the British Museum would be feasible, and Combeferre would miss his chance to see the Stone.  
Arthur and Céline were similarly downhearted, their own queries about their respective interests had been brushed aside as well, with Céline especially being sharply told by Mrs Pemberworth that she was being “a spoiled brat who was trying to take attention away from her poor cousin” (Alexandra herself had taken her younger cousin aside after, and apologised on her mother’s behalf). It became clear to them that unless they were helping with the wedding preparations, they were expected to keep their mouths shut.

-

Arthur bemoaned this one evening after dinner while he, Céline, and Combeferre were sitting together in Arthur’s bedroom. (Enjolras was not with them, as he had received a letter from Courfeyrac and Feuilly earlier that day that contained important ciphered Abaissé information) Any attempts at distracting themselves with books or discussion merely led to them being even more put out.

“Everything is about ‘the wedding’. It’s like we cannot breathe if it is not to do with the blasted _ wedding! _ ” Arthur groaned, rubbing a hand across his face wearily, “I don’t know how Alexandra has kept sane. Or maybe she isn’t, I don’t know how you could be and commit to all,” a vague hand gesture, “ _ this. _ ”  
“Don’t be unkind,” Céline chastised, though her tone was tired as well, “it’s not Alexandra’s fault that weddings are so ridiculous.”  
“Yes, it is,” Arthur grumbled, “she’s the one getting married.”  
“Now, now,” Combeferre interjected, abandoning the article on hieroglyphs he’d been trying to read, “I think if given half a chance my cousin would opt for a simpler affair, I don’t think she’s had the choice.”  
“No,” Céline sighed, “we don’t really get much choice in things. You know, Aunt Elizabeth has already cornered Maman a few times about ‘getting me betrothed’ to some ‘eligible young men’ she knows of.”  
She wrinkled her nose,  
“I don’t particularly want to think about being fenced off onto some dreary man. I...I wouldn’t love him. I couldn’t. I could...I could _ like _ him, certainly, but not love. I don’t want to marry, it wouldn’t be right.”  
“No,” Arthur admitted, “me neither.”  
Combeferre was silent. Somewhere, deep in his heart, he disagreed. He did want to marry, eventually, it was just the matter that he physically could not marry the person he would have wanted to, because that person was male. If it were possible for two men, or indeed two women in Céline’s case, to marry, he expected his sister and his cousin’s answers would be different. 

As if she could read his mind, Céline then remarked,  
“I’d much rather live the rest of my life as Charlotte’s companion. You know, Charlotte Pernevelle? I went to school with her, her father is the silk merchant. She’s...more to me than a man ever could be.”  
There was a soft smile on her face, one that Combeferre instantly recognised as his own when he let himself even consider a world in which he could spend his life with Enjolras.  
“And would you marry _ her _ if you could?” he asked before he could stop himself, and was surprised when she nodded, eyes wide as if she hadn’t even considered the concept before,  
“If she’d have me,” she replied, clasping her hands together tightly, “even at school we used to talk about being a pair of spinsters together into old age. No marriage, no suitors, just us two, together.” 

“Bliss,” Arthur murmured, resting his head on his folded arms, “to be able to live and love together, no questions asked. Instead, we have to be so discreet it’s as if we’re different people,”  
He looked up at Combeferre, a haunted look in his eyes that was far too old for Arthur’s fifteen years,  
“They can hang men like us here, Seb. You have to be so bloody careful all the time, and it’s not fair.”  
“No,” Combeferre murmured, “it isn’t.”  
He reached forward and pressed his cousin’s hand,  
“It’s not easy for us in France, either, but it’s not...you know...illegal. Perhaps, when you’re older, you could come to Paris. I think you’d like it.”  
Céline’s eyes lit up,  
“Yes! Come to France, we’ll look after you!”  
Arthur went red, burying his head back into his arms again. Céline threw her arms around him affectionately, an embrace that Combeferre joined in with.  
“Maybe one day,” Céline said after a moment, “all of us could live together. That way, we’d know we were in safe company.”  
“I’d like that,” Arthur replied,  
“Though…” she glanced up at her brother with a knowing smile, “I can think of another person my brother would rather live with.”  
Combeferre sighed softly in acknowledgement.  
“Monsieur Enjolras,” Arthur observed, and his cousin nodded.  
Arthur and Céline released him, though they sat either side of him, their heads resting on his shoulders. The flickering light of the candles made shadows dance across the walls; Combeferre watched them for a moment or two as he chose what he was going to say next.  
  
Eventually, he took a deep breath and said,  
“François and I...what we have is different to what I’ve had with other men, friends and lovers alike. I do believe that I… I care for him, a great deal. Like he’s a part of my own soul. I cannot imagine, now, ever being parted for him. I would gladly follow him to the ends of the earth, content in the knowledge that he’d be by my side.”  
  
He thought back to their earlier conversation about marriage and realised that if he could, he would marry Enjolras in a heartbeat. The thought of being joined mind, body, and soul to him, the thought of Enjolras loving him, overwhelmed him.  
Though therein lay the problem, as it were. There was no doubt in Combeferre’s mind that he was dear to Enjolras, why else would he have agreed to come with him here? Why else would he care what Combeferre had to say even if he himself may not personally agree? Why else would he share smiles, touches, tenderness with him? But romantic love was a different matter. Combeferre had never known Enjolras to be linked in that way to anyone, man or woman, in all the time they’d known each other. Perhaps he was not that sort of man. Perhaps Combeferre had misjudged how close they were altogether, and he had neglected to realise if Enjolras had a lover or mistress. He barely entertained the notion that Enjolras may be like himself, let alone feel for him in a reciprocal fashion.  
Really, he reasoned, he shouldn’t dwell on that. He knew that Enjolras did love him, in a way. He could be content with that, couldn’t he?  
  
Céline gently touched his arm,  
“I still think you should tell him, Bastien. You care about this man deeply, it’s obvious, and I don’t think this is something you should keep from him.” 

Combeferre made a noise of acknowledgement but said nothing. 

“Come,” Arthur said in an attempt to raise their spirits a bit, “show me the hieroglyphs text, Seb, I want to try decoding some of it.”

-

  
His contemplation had left Combeferre in a queer mood, which persisted until he returned to his and Enjolras’ room later that evening. He had a suspicion Céline was right, he needed to say something to Enjolras, eventually. It clearly must have worked for her and her Mlle Pernevelle, and even for Arthur and his Eton sweetheart. But Enjolras was different, wasn’t he?  
  
Enjolras was sat in the desk chair when Combeferre returned, eyes drooping sleepily as he finished a letter, presumably in response to the one Courfeyrac had sent him. His gold hair glinted in the candlelight. He looked up when Combeferre entered, and his lips curved into a tired smile,  
“It’s good news from Courfeyrac and Feuilly,” he said, motioning for Combeferre to sit beside him, “Feuilly’s sent us a more or less verbatim transcript of a workers’ meeting they attended, a general consensus was that this group of workers were considering allying themselves with like-minded societies; the Abaissé would be a contender.”  
  
“That _ is _ good,” Combeferre replied softly, sharing Enjolras’ smile.  
Enjolras gestured over to the letters on the desk,  
“Read them yourself, if you like. The cypher key is on the inside of my journal.”  
Combeferre leaned over and picked them up, very aware of Enjolras’ hand resting on the small of his back as he did so. The news was much the same as Enjolras had described, though he basked in their proximity as they read, heads bent together so closely their hair mingled, dark brown against golden blonde. Occasionally Enjolras would reach out and point out important sentences, and as their hands brushed Combeferre felt a shiver run up his spine. Enjolras was more or less resting his head on his, seemingly more comfortable now than he had been while sitting alone. They murmured their thoughts on the letter in each other's ears, so used they were to each other's presence, their proximity, that the intimacy of the discussion was second nature. It was not, however, lost on Combeferre, and truly he felt at his happiest now than he had done all day; at this moment there were no pressures, no family, no weddings, just the two of them sitting together reading. Enjolras was tactile with all his friends, this was true, but there was something more to how they were sitting now. 

  
  
Eventually, they set the letters back on the desk; there was evidently work to be done for when they returned to Paris, but it would have to wait for now. Slowly, Enjolras rose from the chair and stretched, Combeferre watched him. A thousand thoughts about what Céline had said suddenly raced in his head, though none particularly coherent; his turmoil must have been apparent on his face because Enjolras then frowned and said,  
“Are you well? You look troubled.” 

_Indeed,_ Combeferre thought, _I am_.

How could he even begin to articulate what was wrong with him? Was there even anything wrong with him? There were a thousand things he wanted to say, but how to phrase them? How could he tell Enjolras what he felt about him? Combeferre didn’t even know if there were the right words in any language to articulate it properly. 

Until, he realised, there were three rather simple ones.  
  
“Combeferre?”

_ I love you. _

“I’m fine. I’m just tired, Céline, Arthur and I were reading Egyptology books and it’s drained me somewhat.”

He pushed himself to his feet as well, and Enjolras immediately touched his shoulder gently, comfortingly. Combeferre’s heart jumped.  
He loved Enjolras. He was in love with him. It was a queer feeling, truly, to be able to pinpoint it and admit it to himself at last with those three words, but at the same time, it was a relief. He loved him.  
  
Enjolras studied his face, brow furrowed in concern,

“Then you should sleep. As should I, it would not do for both of us to wear ourselves out.”  
  
They both changed slowly, Combeferre was lost in thought. He helped Enjolras untie his cravat, as Enjolras deftly undid some of the more stubborn buttons on Combeferre’s shirt.  
Combeferre lay awake for a while after Enjolras blew the candle out, contemplating his revelation. It would perhaps be harder, now, knowing that he was in love with the man he considered his closest friend, but still, he would not change his feelings for the world.  
He figured though, before he finally drifted off, that Enjolras returning them in full was as likely as being able to visit the museum where the Stone was.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally I had a meeting with Niepce planned, because science, but alas couldn't fit it in.


	3. Part III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enjolras and Combeferre visit the British Museum, and Enjolras makes a discovery.

The very next morning, however, Combeferre’s luck turned. His mother caught his arm as he and Enjolras were headed downstairs for breakfast, eyes bright with excitement,  
“Seb, my darling, my sister and I are taking Alexandra to a fitting appointment in Bloomsbury this morning. She’s requested that you, Arthur and Céline accompany us there, but afterwards, she’ll expect you to take them both home...though I can imagine you could find something better to do with your time?”   
Combeferre’s eyes went wide; the British Museum was in Bloomsbury. This could well be their chance to go. Madame Combeferre gave her son a knowing smile,   
“You’ll be expected back by dinner, take your sister and cousin out for afternoon tea while you’re at it, I think they could use the reprieve from this madhouse.”   
“O-of course!”   
“Good.” her smile turned tender, “Use your time wisely, my dear, I know how much this means to you.”   
She turned to Enjolras,   
“Keep an eye on my son, Monsieur Enjolras, left unguarded he’ll spend all day with those artefacts.”

Enjolras nodded politely. Madame Combeferre tapped his shoulder good-naturedly, then turned to walk into the dining room. Combeferre had stopped on the stairs, mouth dry,   
“My God, we’re actually going to go,” he laughed breathlessly in disbelief, “I...I need to go tell Cici and Arthur!”   
The sheer joy that was overtaking Combeferre was almost tangible to Enjolras, and it made the nameless warmth begin fizzing within him again. Enjolras offered him a gentle smile that was more with his eyes than with his lips, and pressed Combeferre’s hand,   
“I shall meet you in the dining room.”

“You will accompany me to the museum, yes?”  
“I have accompanied you thus far, have I not?”   
Combeferre beamed at him, then turned on his heel and took off up the stairs. 

As they walked to the museum from where they had dropped Alexandra, her mother, and Mme Combeferre off later that morning, Enjolras was reminded of his earlier thoughts that Combeferre and his younger cousin were nearly one and the same due to the excitement that was was clear on both their faces. Céline too was almost bouncing as she walked arm in arm with her cousin, chattering excitedly about what she hoped were in the Natural History galleries that she was so keen to visit. They swiftly trotted a few paces ahead of Enjolras and Combeferre in their excitement, leaving them side by side. Combeferre chattered too, rapidly relaying all the research and reading he had done on the artefacts, the hieroglyphs, all the knowledge that was waiting for them within the walls of the museum. 

Enjolras let him speak. He himself was still of two minds about it; surely the money that had been spent on the exhibition could have gone to a greater use. While he’d largely been in the company of the more affluent inhabitants of the city, the sheer amount of poor and disenfranchised people that were crammed into the streets couldn’t be ignored. While the wealthy thrived in their ornate houses, the poor were dying in the slums. The wealth that had been outpoured into the museum’s houses could have gone to public funding, ensuring all those in the slums could have food in their stomachs and a roof over their heads. It was more practical, was it not? Should the welfare of the people of Britain not be its priority? He raised this point to Combeferre gently, as they walked. He did not wish to curb Combeferre’s enthusiasm, especially when this was something that he cared about and had been anticipating so immensely.   
“I understand your point,” Combeferre replied, “but the exhibition does benefit the people. It is free to enter, they do not turn anyone away based on their status or education. And is the opportunity to learn, the access to all this knowledge, not to the people’s advantage? This museum is for the people’s welfare, in its way. It may not be as apparent, or as instant, as if the money was given directly to people, but its merits will be seen in the future. Museums, especially ones that allow entry to everyone, will aid progress in the long term. Imagine, a child will walk in and see something like a fragment of pottery, a statue, a painting, and it will change that child’s life; that child could then go on to learn, to teach, to improve the lives of others. Is that not worth the expenditure?”

“If that child starves to death, they will not be able to improve anything in the long run,” Enjolras replied,   
“I know, and this is a problem that needs addressing, both here and at home, but every child has a right to learn, just as they have a right to bread.”   
Enjolras nodded, and they walked in silence for a few more minutes, keeping an eye on Céline and Arthur. Eventually, Enjolras said,   
“The young child who walked into a museum and was inspired by what they saw… that was you, was it not?”   
Combeferre grinned sheepishly,   
“Well, yes. Though for me it was rather more morbid, seeing preserved animals and skeletons in an anatomical museum, rather than artefacts from antiquity; perhaps the golden ideals of ancient societies is more quaint a source of inspiration than a few pickled eels in alcohol.” 

Enjolras returned his smile and pressed his hand. 

Eventually, they turned onto Great Russell Street in Bloomsbury, and Montagu House, in which the museum was housed, loomed before them. Céline let out an excited gasp and hurried forward, half dragging her cousin by the arm. 

The younger two were positively bouncing with anticipation as they entered, and while he was more subdued, Enjolras could tell that Combeferre was just as excited.   
“The Natural History Galleries are upstairs,” Combeferre said to them, “I trust you two to be sensible on your own. Meet us back in the foyer in an hour?”   
Céline and Arthur nodded, then hurried off up the stairs as quickly as they could short of actually running. This left Enjolras and Combeferre alone.   
Combeferre took in a deep breath and squeezed Enjolras’ hand gently. They walked in the direction of the Egypt exhibitions.   
  
A sharp contrast from the walk here, the journey as they weaved through the crowds in the different rooms of the museum was silent, though Enjolras could feel how tense with anticipation Combeferre still was beside him like he was a spring that was being tightened with each step. Then, they were there.   
  
On the walls and in cases were pots, papyruses, statues and effigies, even a sarcophagus or two. But Combeferre’s attention was instantly drawn to a plinth in the centre of the room, surrounded by people. There, under a glass frame, was an immense slab of dark stone, upon which were carved hundreds of figures; the Rosetta Stone stood before them. Enjolras heard Combeferre’s breath hitch as they approached. 

It was a magnificent sight. The cool black stone had an almost blue hue to it, and the etchings of the letters were clear as day, despite being around two millennia old. When the crowd parted enough, they were able to approach the plinth on which the stone was resting and see every detail up close. Enjolras could just about make out some of the Greek script that was inscribed on the stone, but above it were two scripts that he didn’t recognise. Combeferre traced them on the glass frame that covered the top of it with a finger, eyes wide with awe,  
“It’s hieroglyphics, the top bit,” he breathed, half to Enjolras and half to himself, “then standard Egyptian script, it’s called _Demotic, _that they used for-”   
“-Everyday writing and documents,” Enjolras finished, “I remember you telling me.”   
Combeferre smiled appreciatively,   
“You remembered.”   
“I listened to you,” Enjolras replied softly.

  
Combeferre fell silent again, eyes following the lines and lines of ancient writing, etched by the hands of men who were long dead, yet their words were still visible now and would be for years to come. He blinked hard, then quickly removed his spectacles to rub at his eyes; Enjolras noticed then, that they were shining with tears. He reached for Combeferre’s free hand and pressed it lightly. Combeferre did not tear his gaze from the stone but squeezed back. 

Enjolras followed his gaze, their hands still joined. As he looked, suddenly Combeferre’s enthusiasm to come here and see the Rosetta Stone made so much sense to him. The inscribed stone before them contained something that transcended history, tangible proof of communication between thousands of years previous to the time in which they were living. And this had brought a tear to Combeferre’s eyes. It was, Enjolras thought, a summation of the depth of Combeferre’s love for humanity, his recognition of fraternity between men that spanned generations. It was living history, and Enjolras recalled the effect that Combeferre believed this could have on someone, the potential inspiration that this reminder of how an era that was so often shrouded in myth and legend was an era in human history that they were now linked to. The potential to learn from this stone, to thrive further, to connect humanity to its roots that it may further understand and appreciate its present, that it may indeed progress to new levels of enlightenment.   
This was more than just a stone from Egypt with writing on it, this was a key to the past and the future.   
  
Had it not been for Combeferre, Enjolras realised, he would not have had this revelation. This entire exhibit would have been no more than an example of overindulgent opulence at the expense of the British people’s wellbeing, and yet now he found himself considering it in the light that Combeferre had shed on it.   
That tingling warmth spread through his chest again as he thought of it, bringing it a wave of affection for Combeferre. It was more than just that Combeferre had shared his view, it was that Enjolras found himself invested in it, in him. In part, he cared now because Combeferre cared so much, and had taken time to express his joy at being here. He had asked for Enjolras to be with him, and Enjolras could not think of anywhere he would rather be at that moment. He was sharing in Combeferre’s joy, and with it came an inexplicable deep fondness that Enjolras couldn’t name. It was like each touch, each word shared between them, permeated past the surface and penetrated their souls. 

Enjolras did not often think much on the nature of a human soul, it was a concept more suited for the philosophers in his friend group, but now as he looked from the ancient stone to Combeferre’s face, he pondered it. Combeferre traced the words again and again in deep concentration, marvelling at each mark, then he took Enjolras’s hand and silently laid it on the glass case as well. An unspoken gesture, inviting him to partake in this activity that meant so much to him. Similarly to how Enjolras had guided Combeferre’s hand over the ciphered letter the previous evening, here Combeferre guided his, over the lines and lines of text. Not a word was spoken, yet Enjolras felt as though Combeferre’s soul was speaking to him, drawing him close. It was an odd thing for him to consider, and he was not sure if he was comfortable thinking it, but it made the most sense for how he felt. The warmth in his chest spread all over his body, and the fondness he felt magnified until it was...he didn’t know. This was foreign to Enjolras, and unnerving in its way, yet he welcomed it. Why would he not? This was Combeferre, after all. He trusted him, cared for him, respected him as a man, as a scientist, as a friend. The dearest friend he had, one he wished to be with until the end, until they were as faint memories as the men who had carved the stone sitting before them. In the bright future he often envisaged, he and Combeferre were together in it.   
  
Combeferre clearing his throat awkwardly broke Enjolras from his reverie, fixing his glasses again,  
“It…the text itself is not that special. An edict of some kind, those ‘everyday writing and documents’ demotic is used for. Unfortunately the mysteries of the Pharaohs will not be uncovered from this stone alone,” he looked away bashfully, “perhaps it is foolish of me to become emotional over it.”  
“I do not agree,” Enjolras replied, “it is not foolish at all.”  
Combeferre did not respond, but looked at Enjolras appreciatively.   
  
  
Time passed both slowly and quickly, until Combeferre checked his pocket watch and declared, halfheartedly, that they ought to be getting on. Céline and Arthur were waiting for them.   
Over tea in a cafe they found about halfway home, the two young cousins regaled Combeferre and Enjolras with their finds, and while Combeferre nodded politely, for the most part he was silent, lost in thought, even solemn. This continued during the walk home, all through the rest of the afternoon, through dinner and into the evening. Combeferre merely nodded when his mother told them they were to return to Essex the next morning.

-

They retired to their rooms for the evening, shucked off their coats, and began to pack. Combeferre was still very quiet, and Enjolras, now concerned, crossed over to him and lightly touched his arm,  
“Sébastien,” he murmured, “you’ve barely spoken since we left the museum. Has the trip saddened you?”   
Combeferre shook his head, eyebrows raised in surprise,   
“What? No, no… the opposite, in fact. It has been a lot for me to think about and truly, I’ve not been able to do anything _but _think since we stepped out of the gallery. But truly…” he let out a soft exhale, “Today has made me the happiest I have been in a while and I… François, I cannot even begin to say how special today was. To see that stone has been a dream I’ve had since childhood,” he looked up and met Enjolras’ eye, “and I am made that much happier that I got to share it with you. I would not have had it be anyone else.”   
“Not even your sister? Or your cousin?”   
“No. I love them dearly but… they are not you. I know and understand that our opinions and interests may clash in regards to this, but even so. I wanted you there, with me,” he broke off, and slid his glasses off his nose to fiddle with them, lowering his gaze. He swallowed hard and said,   
“I believe I shall always want you with me. Every day, for the rest of my life.”   
He looked up at him again, studying Enjolras’ face and looked almost…. Fearful. As if he thought Enjolras would laugh at him, or push him away. As if he hadn’t put words to Enjolras’ own thoughts earlier in the day.   
Enjolras stepped forward and embraced him, wrapping his arms around Combeferre tightly and leaning down to bury his head in the crook of Combeferre’s shoulder. Combeferre initially started in surprise, then returned the embrace, revelling in the feeling of Enjolras’ arms around him, the tickle of his hair on his neck, the rise and fall of his breaths. There was something so familiar about how they fit together, like nature had intended it. Perhaps it had.  
  
“Thank _you _for sharing today with me,” Enjolras murmured after a moment, his voice muffled by the fabric of Combeferre’s collar, “It feels as though…I understand what you meant, now. And I understand more clearly why this mean to you what it did.”  
“Truly?”  
“Yes,” Enjolras stepped back slightly so as to be able to meet Combeferre’s gaze,  
“that there is hope for the future to be found in learning from the past.”  
“There is hope to be found in learning itself,” Combeferre replied, “and the past is a good place to begin. The past gives us a new understanding of the present.”  
  
Indeed it had, Enjolras thought, though now his thoughts deviated from the Rosetta Stone and things began to click into place. The nameless feeling that he had felt earlier that day, that he had felt many times in the past when with Combeferre, that communion of souls… he understood now that Combeferre could well feel the same. There was somewhat of a sweet irony to Enjolras reflecting philosophically on something that Combeferre had likely meant literally, though in truth Enjolras found he was glad of this. He had learned this from him, and he could not imagine a better teacher.

Combeferre lowered his eyes again, as if he would not dare to meet Enjolras’, then steeled himself to look up,   
“Today at the museum, I… you shall have to forgive me for getting so emotional-“  
“There is nothing to forgive, Sébastien.”  
“Even so…I just…François, I…”  
He had become lost for words, couldn’t articulate what he wanted to say and then couldn’t dare to make it pass his lips. He slid his glasses back onto his nose and stepped back, missing Enjolras’ warmth immediately,  
“We should continue packing, it’s late.”  
  
Enjolras could do little more than nod, and they packed in silence for the next hour until they retired. He lay awake for a long while, listening to the gentle sound of Combeferre’s breathing and contemplating what his ‘new understanding’ of his own present was. He hoped that come the new day, he would, at last, be able to name what he felt.   
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a reupload of the original chapter three as I wasn't happy with it, so I've edited it and changed a bit here and there. 
> 
> This entire fic is inspired by this art that I drew years ago of these two with the Stone so I'm glad they finally got there:  
https://baronmpontmercy.tumblr.com/post/188641734874/baronmpontmercy-baronmaximilian-enjolras-and
> 
> I re-wrote the end of this directly after watching the opera scene in 1994 'Little Women' and gosh if Friedrich's "Your heart understood mine" poem isn't a whole ass mood here.

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Logic and Philosophy Week!  
This fic has been running around in my head now for years, and I'm finally getting it out. I'm being a bit fast and loose with some historical detail, but I'm trying to get things like dates accurate.
> 
> Combeferre and photography is something I one day want to write a whole fic of its own about, haha.


End file.
